Vengeance for the Forgotten
by Augustino Alighieri
Summary: She was two, the wraith and the woman. The path that had led her here was a past forgotten, and she'd strive to regain it. The Lady of Vengeance walks the road to her humanity, lined with new friends and old foes. A reattempt at an older story of mine, with more experience under my belt and a new state of the world for the source material.
1. Limbic

Why was she doing this?

The girl had her whole life ahead of her, she was young and not unattractive. She was smart enough to cut a path out and live, perhaps even thrive.

Yes, she had her whole life ahead of her, but nothing else. Nothing to show for it, nothing to carry her forward. What was ahead of her was empty, hollow, spiritless. It'd be more apt to say that the girl's entire life was behind her, lost to time she couldn't recover.

The descent had started a week ago. Her father – wealthy, but alone from the death of her mother many years ago – had died suddenly, so soon before she had been set to marry the love of her life. She had mourned and grieved, but held hope in her heart that the blessing of marriage would eclipse this tragedy and help her move on, living.

Her fiancé had been a kind, handsome young man, from a family of low income but great love. She had been welcomed by his parents as one of their own, as they did her father, fulfilling her longing to belong to a family that was whole once again. She could still see the face of her deceased father in her mind's eye. His life had faded before he was due to die, but his final moments had been filled with the content that his only daughter would be complete in her life.

It made her heart ache, beating sorrowfully in her hunched chest.

Replacing her father in her vision was the handsome face of her lover, the last man she wanted to see right now. He smiled at her from beyond her tears, a genuine smile that she had last seen from behind a white veil.

Everything after that had been the truth, unfortunately.

As soon as the vows had been confirmed and their love officiated, he'd dropped the charade. Not immediately; as a sweeping arm disrobing a heavy cloak would have, but more like allowing the cloak to slowly fall from the wearers shoulders, revealing blackened and twisted intent inch by inch. He'd seemed colder in the carriage home, but she assumed it was just nerves and the thrill of the moment catching up with him and let him be.

They'd arrived, and it was the last time she'd see her father's house – what was meant to be her house. Another woman was already waiting at the door, prettier and younger than she. The wed woman now understood, and was cast out.

Marriage in her village named the husband as the dominant party, socially, privately and most relevantly; financially. She'd inherited her father's wealth, and now he'd gained it by having her take his name. That was that, she was no longer useful to him.

So she'd left – denied access into her own home. She sold her wedding dress to the blacksmith, the only possession she had on her – and wandered the road for several hours before collapsing under the twilight sky in a gutter. Barely clothed and clutching an odd assortment of items, she laid her hand bare on the ground and let her memories catch up with her.

The tragedy of her father's death could have been endured, had her lover been as true as she'd believed. However, the betrayal took its toll on her, and in turn she'd ensure the downfall of the traitors.

One clink of a nail hitting the cobblestone ground as it was hammered through the straw effigy.  
Then a second, following the first.  
Then a third.

"…I name him thrice."

Kalista could still remember that night. A young girl in a gutter had begged an audience, so she had shown herself. The ethereal eyes of the Lady of Vengeance had seen potential, belied by the sorry state the girl had been at the time, but the girl was willing to through with this. Throwing her life and soul away for a moment of revenge.

Kalista would not deny her.

The next morning the people of the small Demacian village awoke to horror. A young man and his female companion, murdered in their home. There was no sign of a break-in, nor a weapon. A struggle was apparent, but it didn't reveal anything about the nature of the attack. He had three holes piercing his torso, and she had her throat unnaturally torn open.

No one took notice of the husk by the side of the road, several kilometres away. The church of Kindred had picked up the lifeless body and been on their way. She'd go forgotten, left behind by the memories of the living.

And eventually, even Kalista would forget her too.

A spray of dirt hung in the air momentarily before falling back, redefining the pattern that lay on the surface of the ground. With each footfall beckoning another wake like it, Kalista bounded across the desolate lands of the Shadow Isles, the silence echoing. Only here would her ghostly bare feet disturb the earth, the once hallowed land, hollowed. Even in undeath, she was as graceful and purposeful in her motions as she had been in life. The martial poise of a fighter had never left her, it likely never would.

This corner of the Isles was empty and dipped into the sea along the south-eastern coast, the dark grey sand sinking into the inky black of the ocean, so dark one wouldn't be able to see their own submerged hand in front of their face. As far inland as the section went was a bleak wasteland, a pallet of deathly green and lifeless black.

However, this corner of the Isles was the closest thing Kalista had to call home. The rest of the Islands belonged to the other Islanders, who had taken dominion and imprinted their hollowed identities over the lands.

She looked out to sea, pausing on her passing. She knew Bilgewater was out there, the closest living settlement – and beyond that, the rest of Valoran.

 _…I wonder if our…my memories are there. On the continent..._

She put it out of her mind immediately, noticing the shadow behind her. She returned to her stride, bounding across the sand.

Kalista did not fear the Black Mist, none of the greater Islanders did. It was power to them, akin to blood. The only difference was how it manifested from one to another. For Kalista, every time she looked into the Mist she'd see the faces of those who'd pledged themselves to her. Most of them went unrecognized, and none of them would stay forever. The Mist also provided her with her spears, and enhanced her already inhumane agility.

More importantly, it would grant the memories of those she avenged while the wraith was on the hunt.

But never her own.

When the Mist was not in control, that was what drove her. She couldn't remember. Her mind was perpetually in two. She was a conflicting entity, part Lady of Vengeance, part Kalista. One half would drift, subconsciously across the continent for the sake of revenge with an avatar formed from the Mist. The other was clouded, an unremembered dream that would taunt her with waking nightmares. She yearned to know, to remember what she had lost – but without anywhere to start, all Kalista could do was wander the Isles, providing her spirit for when the Lady of Vengeance was called upon.

An hour passed and she'd entered a new area of the Isles, one built on the decaying ruins of what was once the hub of the Blessed Isles. Strangely, this was something that Kalista remembered. Before the descent of the undead, the hub had been a tall and proud castle, boasting a grand internal labyrinth of corridors and rooms.

 _This place…_

Taking a step inward, what she remembered immediately conflicted with what she felt. What few memories she had of this place were from before the darkening of the Isles, when it was a land of light and enlightenment. What she felt however, was a foreboding sense of dread from all directions; her Mist beckoned her to turn and leave, the faces and spectral hands almost reaching out to pull her back. She ignored them, pulling forward with spear inhand and her Mist trailing behind her, billowing as if it were a great cape in the wind, evoking the image of a once-lost general.

The ruins loomed around her, still and silent, but alive. Kalista's instinct for battle were keen – she felt watched, she knew that the greater Islanders who called this place theirs were aware of her. Still the proud warrior, Kalista didn't slink through shadows, rather she brazenly walked about the area, ready for any challenge that might come their way. Few of the greater Islanders had been warriors in both life and death, and fewer still could match what Kalista had been.

Nevermind that she could barely remember those days.

Some time passed, and Kalista found herself in front of a collapsed tower, the brickwork barely retaining itself past the ground level, but there was more to the tower. Entering the crumbled doorway, Kalista saw a stairway leading underground, mostly intact and lit with a glowing green light from the sconces. She could feel the presence of another beneath the ground, someone kin to her, who'd been witness to the Ruination, but someone she didn't remember. Her Mist resonated with the other ones' as well, the interaction almost likable to a bond.

 _Forward._ She thought, swiftly making her way down, bouncing down the steps more than walking, her tattered garment trailing behind her, leading her Mist.

At the bottom of the stairs was a hallway, dotted by lock doors down its throat. At the end of the hallway was the only unlocked door, emitting an eerie glow from behind. Kalista waved her arm, commanding the Mist behind her to upon the door as she approached it, allowing her gait to be unimpeded.

What she saw was a room almost describable as a laboratory.

Yet instead of progression or innovation, this room was dedicated to torture. Withered husks and full-bodied corpses in all manner of mutilation adorned the walls, tables, ceilings, hanging cages and even carpeted the floors around the rim of the room. Shades of blood red and pale green were cast over the room, but they hung thinly against the overwhelming black that permeated.

Towards the back and at the centre, facing away from the door, Kalista saw the figure. Rather than the other greater Islanders, this one did not permit his domain over the Black Mist to surround him externally, instead residing in the lantern hanging by his side. His large, ornate black coat made his already imposing shoulders seem bigger, the image helped by his hunched, focused posture. A trio of chain-linked dreadlocks swam idly in the air behind his head, dancing slowly.

The Mist suddenly activated, like a defence mechanism. Slowly, silently, it wrapped itself around her, casting her in a black ethereal armour littered with the faces of those she'd avenged. It smoked off her toned limbs, lining each tendon. The air fell dark around her, sapping at the light. To a living creature, it also felt heavier; full of dread. She felt a voice echoing in the back of her mind, a swear of vengeance – though it didn't invoke her, she heard it. Memories filled her mind, but they were memories vividly not her own. As it had always been.

A pair of beams of light that defended the innocent, holding off the darkness, separate but one. An unforeseen calamity, resulting in the irreversible loss of a loved one, the only thing he held dear. A twisted heart, wielding a double-helix of shining righteousness that had once been two, now truly one.

The Lady of Vengeance glowed, her eyes and skin seeping ethereal wisps as the Mist in turn seeped into her mind. What had been the tranquil Kalista reshaped into the vicious, vengeful wraith. Her face formed a silent snarl, and she poised on the balls of her feet, conjuring a spear from the Mist around her and twirling it.

Then she leapt, with the grace of a ribbon and the ferocity of a Fury. Twin lights in her hands.

Suddenly, Kalista found herself again. The Mist was once again a shadow behind her, detached. She was standing by the door, having not really moved at all. She blinked several times over, her featureless eyes redefining the room for her.

She frowned inwardly. _Those were…the memories of another. The Mist…_ She turned to it, regarding it distastefully. _But what caused it…?_ She turned to the figure she'd seen before, the one she'd felt herself lunge at.

 _Him. For him, someone has such a lust for revenge. I wonder who._

"Thresh." Kalista called to the other Islander, her vocal reverberations distracting him from his task.

The old relic keeper turned his head, peering over his shoulder and revealing his profile to the wraith behind him. The skull floating in place of his head grinned, turning his body fully to address her.

"Kalista." He replied, returning the greeting. While her voice had been flat and gave away nothing, his was laced with personality. Thresh was a sadistic and hedonistic torture technician. Her voice echoed, but the echo was empty. In comparison, Thresh's voice filled the room and the minds of whoever heard it, usually with fear. Each syllable Thresh spoke contained the essence of his love of torment, his ethereal tongue parcelling and delivering the words. "To what do I owe this…pleasure?"

She knew it was anything otherwise, but the Warden had a sick sense of sensibility. Kalista saw that his infamous lantern hung unsuspended at his hip, and in his opposite side he held his sickle.

"We…I…" She paused, instead deciding not to reveal why she'd come to this part of the Isles.

"Trying to remember?" He chucked through the sentence, leaning onto the table. "You're the only one of _us_ who can't remember who they were before the Ruination." He started swinging his sickle, it looked like out of habit. "I was a relic-keeper, a warden for these treasures, and also their nightmare. My name was Thresh then, as it is now. My fondest memory is receiving one treasure that couldn't die, one who I could enlighten until the end of my days…well, that was the plan."

A raspy laugh left his jaws.

"So, what do you remember, Lady of Vengeance?"

Kalista's ghostly features sharpened and her temper rose, subconsciously inviting the Mist to re-enter her mind, though only a diminutive portion. She didn't like feeling as though she was being toyed with.

"That is not of your concern, Warden."

"Oh, yet here you are, interrupting my work."

"We do not need to explain ourselves to you!" She barked. "Whatever torture you're conducting can hardly be considered _work_." Her tone was displeased, disdainful of her fellow undeads' pastime. More importantly than that though, she tried to deflect the conversation.

Thresh sneered, as best a green-flame skull could. "A wraith with a sense of nobility, do spare me." He stopped swinging his sickle, hanging it over his shoulder instead. "And so you know, what I'm doing isn't for pleasure, it is in fact; work." He moved to the side, revealing the body on the table.

"I will explain. This body used to belong to a young man, a Noxian who only had a few days left of mandatory military service. Amusing, don't you think?" Kalista looked, ignoring the dark hair and fair skin of the body, rather observing the gaping hole in his chest, though the rest of his body was otherwise wholly intact – strange for Thresh, he would have mutilated it. "When he was brought to me, the killing blow had already crushed his ribcage, making the incision nice and easy."

"You do not justify your actions, Warden." The last word spoken with an unwarranted level of scorn, tightly gripping a created spear.

Thresh mocked her with his smile. "Spooky. Are you to seek revenge for this poor soul?" She didn't react.

"This is research." Thresh iterated. "…I want to know how the cause of death would impact a soul. Well, at least the cause of death isn't me." He grinned widely as he finished his comment, his fingers dancing over the top of his lantern."

"How can you work on them without claiming them?"

"I have to will souls into my lantern to claim them. It's as simple as just wanting them there, so I've had to avoid…temptation while I work." Thresh suddenly brought his sickle down into the open chest of his subject, causing the cadaver to shake violently. "As it turns out, a soul will remain dormant within its dead body until willed out by some other force. What this usually means, is one of us; the Champions of the Shadow Isles."

He was being patient with her, trying to calm down before she took upon the mantle of the Lady.

"And then…?" Kalista queried, her mind stabilizing and egesting the Mist.

Thresh sighed, a hollow sound. "That's as far as I've managed to get, I'm afraid. I now need to contact the soul without drawing it into my lantern."

"I…see…" Kalista didn't really have a reaction to what he'd said beyond acknowledgement. Soul containment and manipulation was not her field, she was a vengeful wraith, not a sadistic soul shackler.

"But what about your issue, dear Lady?" Thresh pointed, his voice bordering on mocking.

Kalista had no answer for him, and found herself looking at the floor.

Thresh began to walk up to her, his gait slow yet menacing. This was the walk of a predator, but the type whose prey was strapped to the table and naked.

"What will do you about your little…amnesia problem."

Kalista scowled, the Mist flooded into her and she willed a spear into her hand, pressing the tip against Thresh's underjaw. "There is no problem! We are Vengeance!" She announced, staring a killing gaze into his eyes.

The Warden merely chuckled. "Not bad, but I want to hear _Kalista_ say that."

The Lady of Vengeance suddenly realized herself. Kalista looked around, noticing that in her flash of rage, the Black Mist had gone from being a familiar behind her, to encapsulating her in its embrace – granting her the appearance of her wraith-emissaries for the second time in so short a span. She frowned and cast it off, willing it to slink back away to the back of the room and away from her, for the time being.

"We…I…" _I want to remember._ "…must remember."

"There it is." Thresh's laugh got a little louder before quieting. "I could help you, but how far are you willing to go to find your past?"

Kalista glared at him, a flash of the Mist returning to her eyes, but she dismissed it again.

"What do you propose?"

Thresh grinned wider, lifting his sickle from his belt. "Allow me to separate those lost souls of yours from you, let me take them under my care. Find yourself."

"Never!" Kalista roared, leaping back and readying her weapons. She looked up, prepared to don the Mist again and to fight, but Thresh hadn't taken a swing at her, he hadn't even moved. She blinked a few times as she calmed herself down, trying to block out the Chain Warden's laughter.

"We will find my own way, ourselves!" She paused. " _Myself_!"

"Oh, so violent, Kalista." Thresh turned back, returning to the corpse he'd been tinkering with. "My offer stands should you change your mind."

Kalista found herself standing for a few moments, thinking of nothing. She flinched away as the Mist brushed against her ankle, snaking around her leg. It called to her, there was another oath to be sworn.

She made a noise at Thresh, scorning him as she entered the Mist, becoming intangible as she adopted the spectral form she used to mete out vengeance across the world. The souls swirled, individual memories congealed and became one, a singular voice that echoed with a collective thrum. The darkness and the faces within disappeared, carrying the Lady of Vengeance to her next oathsworn.

Thresh smirked once more to himself, now alone.

 _I wonder where this will take her, this journey of remembrance._


	2. Demacia

Sunlight streamed through the ajar window, burning into the closed eyelids of the bedridden elderly man. Groggily, they fluttered open, squinting in pain and the man they belonged to turning away from the light, clutching his head. His hands slipped through loose sheets as they rose up to grip his scalp, blunt fingertips rubbing against the hairless dome.

He grunted as he rose up to a sitting position, propping himself up against the headrest and back wall of the room. Muscles in his lower back ached, but they always ached, and so he ignored it, focusing instead on forcing his eyes open to adjust to the morning light. There was a momentary sting, then it faded and he was fine.

Relatively speaking.

He flexed the muscles in his thighs, willing into motion what little power remained in them, pointlessly lifting and dropping them. His free hand massaged beneath the sheets, rubbing up and down the length of the upper leg, but always stopping just before he reached the knee. He pursed his lips and sighed, looking through the window to the outside world, to the birds, the green, and the freedom that encapsulated it all.

Dry-mouthed and sticky, he reached for the bell sitting on his bedside table. A few flicks of his wrist was enough to send the ringing echoing through his whole house, and a sparse half-minute later the door to his bedchambers opened, a modestly dressed younger woman entering with an equally modest smile.

She greeted him and bowed, asking whether there were any special requests he wanted for his morning meal. He shook his head and she returned downstairs, and the old man went back to staring out the window. He heard the chirping of a sparrow and saw it dart by before flying out of sight. A few seconds later, a group of children entered his field of vision, running and playing over the hill just outside the bounds of his estate. He did not know their names, but he had names of his own for them, recognizing them from the village his home was just outside of. For the time being, he was just content to observe.

However, they're usual playful nothings shifted into a more organized arrangement. The boys had drawn up some kind of formation consisting of two groups, three aside. The girls were behind them in a line, all of them holding sticks and holding them like weapons. Swords for the boys, and bows for the girls. He watched them play at war, shouting at one another to not hit so hard, calling out when someone had been felled and arguing with the play-vanquished. One of the boys swung low, striking the other in the knee, and causing him to fall and to wince in real pain.

A pang of sorrow struck the old man, and his fingertips brushed against the stump of his knees without meaning to, intensifying the heartache. Just for a second, for a split-flash in his minds eye, he was no longer sitting up in his bed, missing the lower half of both legs and swaddled in comfortable Demacian cotton.

He was on the battlefield, the sky was black with the smoke from the flames of Noxian war machines. The armour around his chest was well-fitted but partially dented, his nose filled with the raw stench of death and blood. A fallen horse was lain over his legs, one of his ankles crushed but the other still whole, just trapped. He was still sitting, a pile of corpses supporting his back, drenching his silver in blood.

To his right, a collection of silver-clad soldiers were ablaze, screaming and writhing in violet flames. Their faces were still a blur in his memories, but there were details that would never leave him. One of the men was trying to pry the helmet from his head, but the heat had melted the steel and flesh together, rivulets of blood running down his neck as he tried to separate metal from man. Another was frantically rolling on the ground, doing nothing to abate the fires that covered him.

To his left, a score of similarly garbed knights were having more success with their endeavours. They crashed into a party of Noxian shield-bearers, breaking their ranks and carving through the line with practiced discipline. The black-iron imperial soldiers may have outnumbered the Demacian forces three to one, but there was no substitute for proper training. Over to the far left, way off in the distance, the fabled petricite colossus dominated the field. Every step sent screams and the sounds of crushed armour echoing over the battle, accompanied by a raucous, jovial laughter that inspired pure terror from Noxus's fighters.

What kind of monster could destroy so wantonly and consider it funny?

As the thought had crossed his mind, a roaring bulwark broke out of the Noxian backlines, charging recklessly through the black ranks without a care for life, screaming madly as it tackled shoulder-first into the stone giant's ankle, attacking without pause. The details of the beast were hard to make out from this distance, but there was a glow of something crimson in its belly, and the brutal swings of a great axe.

His attention was taken as a shadow loomed over him, looking up to see a tall, bearded general standing over the corpse-horse pinning his legs. He held a wide-bladed sword over his shoulder, gripping it with both hands. Sweat, grime, and blood that was not his own covered his skin and armour.

The old man remembered trying to scramble away, despite the weight over him. He remembered reaching for a discarded spear, just being out of reach. He remembered seeing the single arc that had cleaved him free, slicing through both knees and depriving him of his legs forever, rather than feeling the pain. He remembered a flash of clean silver as reinforcements climbed over the top of him, engaging the Noxian officer and dragging him to safety. He remembered seeing the general carve through those who had come to his rescue, before blacking out from the blood loss.

And now here he was, decades later. He'd left his bed about four times in the last thirty years. Two were within the first month, clambering, falling, and crawling desperately to prove he was still whole. He'd given up after that, only leaving his room twice more, both for funeral rites.

He was alive at least, and in comfort. He never wanted for anything, was never hungry, was never cold.

Yet, as he looked out and saw the children and their freedom, feelings that had been dormant rose up. Decades of repressed bitterness and rage bubbled from a cauldron in his stomach, filling his head with a steam of fury. For the first few months, he hadn't been able to sleep without the face of the Noxian who had taken his legs haunting his dreams. It then faded, only appearing sporadically and infrequently, until eventually he was no longer troubled.

It was all back to the surface now.

He was living, but not alive, not experiencing life as it was meant to have been. His tongue tasted like salt, and his skin felt dry as he closed his fists, shaking quietly. He wasn't going to get the years of life he'd lost back, he never could, and the years ahead of him would be the same.

What was the point if it was all just so empty?

His servant re-entered the room with his standard breakfast fare. As she placed the stilted tray over his lip, he looked up to her and spoke, asking her to go to into the village and procure a certain set of items.

She set off, and the elderly man sat back in his bed, looking out the window one last time. The children were still there, laughing and sitting in a circle crowning the hill. It was sweet, he thought, and he was at least glad he'd seen it.

The rest of the day was spent inside his own head, concerned with portraying himself through ink, and remembering the image of the Noxian who had stolen his legs.

The next morning, the old man lay unmoving in his bed. His servant had discovered his death after trying and failing to rouse him. Two things had been in his hands, clutched close to his chest. One was a note, addressed to her, explaining his final will in that he would leave the house and a portion of his fortune to her, should she desire to keep it. The other had been a crudely made effigy of straw, and three nails pushed crudely into it – the same set of items she'd picked up for him the day before.

No one could determine his cause of death. There was no disease or signs of pre-mortem distress. The corpse was whole, the vessels within the body intact. It was, to the villagers, as if he'd simply given up his life.

Across the world, another man was waking up dead. His body was lying on its front in the centre of his house for his children to later find, missing the head and his legs below the knees. Those parts had been arranged instead, directly in front of the corpse. His head sat on its side atop the dismembered parts, a thin pike nailing the three pieces in place.

There was no trail of blood to indicate a struggle, only the pool that the body lay in. No damage had been done to the man himself or his home, as if the murderer had simply killed him and committed the sick ritual without any resistance. The only indicator of any killing was a trio of piercing wounds through the mans heart, striking clean through the chest and out his back.

* * *

Kalista found herself staring across the water once more, black spirits aimlessly dancing through the waters placid surface and the air around the coast of the Isles.

She looked down at her hand and flinched. For a split-second, she hadn't seen the clawed, lean hand of the wraith she'd become. It had been heavier and wrinkled, the hand of a man wizened, but only for a heartbeat, just long enough for Kalista to question if she'd actually seen it.

 _Kalista._ She reaffirmed.

A cool wind swept from behind her, causing the loose cloth parts of her garb to rise and trail with it. She felt the cold, but not the chill. She scowled across the ocean, watching the water ripple as the wind traced over it, then turned away and walked back inland.

As she was, as Kalista, she could not leave the Shadow Isles, at best travelling with the yearly onslaught of Black Mist whenever it made landfall somewhere, like Bilgewater. The best she could hope for was experiencing the world through the eyes of her Oathsworn, but even then, it was through fragmented whispers, and only ever in revenge.

 _How can I find myself?_

As if prompted, her portion of the Black Mist materialized around her, snaking around her exposed midriff and clutching her, almost forming fingers and hands. Faces formed in the swirling embrace, calling to her, calling her name.

"… _Vengeance. Vengeance, our Lady._ "

She snarled and tore it away, leaving the entity floating off her back like a cloak of faces and grasping hands, but finding nothing to grab for. Kalista took one last look over her shoulder at the water, then strode forward into the forest, letting the darkness cover her.

Partaking in a hunt always made Kalista feel better. She may not remember who she had been before the ruination, but it felt natural to chase, to indulge in the pursuit and bask in the thrill of a kill. The Isles may be desolate, but it was teeming with that same living desolation. All manner of creatures still roamed the land, either as undead or lost spirits seeking finality, and they were all things to torment for the greater Islanders.

Kalista had learned long ago there was no point to trying to help them pass on. They were stuck here forever.

She brought her hand behind her and scooped out a handful of swirling Black Mist, shaping it into a construct that resembled her own face.

"Seek."

It swum away through the murky forest air, zig-zagging through the trees until the luminous spectre was entirely out of sight. Kalista closed her eyes and for a second saw only the darkness behind her lids. Something came into focus, the wispy frame of a lost spirit, trudging alone through the woods, and Kalista opened her eyes.

Willing a spear into her hand from the Mist behind her, she allowed herself a small grin, and leapt into the hunt.

Trees blurred past Kalista's field of vision as she moved, bounding on great strides and kicks from the ground. Her Black Mist trailed behind her, following every twist and turn Kalista made to reach her target. The wispy spirit had caught on when it had seen the spectral face eyeing it, and set off into a run.

 _No one escapes._

The moment the spirit came into Kalista's true vision, she hurled her spear mid-leap, grazing the spirit on the side of the torso. This didn't seem to impede the fleeing spirit's attempt, but nor did it disparage Kalista. She landed squarely and kicked off, forming, grabbing, and tossing a new spear all in the same arc of her arm.

A direct hit through the shoulder. The spear stuck, and the figure staggered, but picked itself up and continued to shakily run. Another spear, now directly through the sternum, still they ran.

 _Rend!_

The spears tore themselves from the host, ripping through and apart the already fragile state of the spirit. There was a scream as the remaining half-torso and legs fell to the earth, fading fully before Kalista could even reach its corpse.

It hadn't been her greatest hunt, but it had been exhilarating nonetheless. She wasn't certain as to whether it was the slaughter or the chase she preferred, but both aspects were beloved by the wraith. It felt familiar, like home, even if there was something missing…the risk of death?

 _Perhaps Kalista was a fighter…a soldier?_ She asked herself.

She blinked a few times as she realized exactly what she had thought to herself.

 _Perhaps_ _ **I**_ _was a soldier._ She corrected mentally. _But how could I find the truth?_


	3. Blood Moon

_Ionia. Once again._

A moonlit forest near a festival.

The crimson of her armour was familiar to her, even if she couldn't remember the last time she'd worn it. She could remember the Oathsworn who had seen it for themselves – either as spectators of a hunt, or as the contractors themselves. She saw the face of the bone-carved demon she owed patronage to in a pool of water, the still-faced snarling giving her an eerie sense of peace.

Normally her face was a perpetual, strained frown, and that was at the best of times. It was welcome to see placidness, even if it was cast with such vicious imagery.

 _However, this…this is new._ She lifted her clawed fingers and armoured hands up and inspected them, turning her hands over. She pushed her modest chest out, remarking on the tripartite of spectral red spears and the out-of-character but thematically appropriate katana that stuck out below them.

She was in the moment, and this unnerved her.

Typically, Kalista's brand of spectral duty-bound mercenary work manifested as memories. She would receive the dying oath of her sworn, then the Black Mist would consume her, whisking her away to the shadows across Runeterra to exact her vengeance. She wouldn't come to know of her hunt until after her physical form returned to the Shadow Isles, where her memories coalesced and became muddled, but whole again.

But now, she was…

… _I'm here, in the moment. Kalista, that is my name._

The Black Mist was still with her, as it always was. However, this time it felt like she was alone, and it was beside her, not the usual arrangement of it being both hanging over her hungrily and crawling between the empty spaces in her memories. In place of the dense black fog she was used to, it manifested in a deep, blood-red crimson. In place of souls cast in green, grasping and moaning in pain, there were pale-fingered demons with claws, giggling in the mist.

It ultimately meant nothing to her. A change in face for the Black Mist didn't warrant any further attention.

She flexed her fingers and conjured a spear, twirling it between her digits and swinging it through the air. The swings began to incorporate her entire body, shifting into a dance with her weapon. She felt the wind against her, the cool air of the approaching midnight. Her eyes closed, letting herself become consumed by the action. It felt nice. Dancing on her own in an unmarked Ionian forest. There was clarity in her mind, for the moment no spiral of lost memories and lost souls, just Kalista and her duty.

 _And duty calls._

She felt something tug at her mind, away from the nearby festival. Kalista shot a forlorn look towards the lights and sounds peeking over the trees behind her, before beginning her run. Even in the guise of a foreign demon, Kalista ran as though she were kin to the wind. Long, effortless strides that carried no weight, stepping lightly enough to barely disturb the grass and branches she landed on. The dense forest cleared away into an open field, scattered with bright and colourful fauna.

Her feet barely sank into the ground beneath her as she quickly moved through the field, unflinching as the tall grass whipped past her. The field soon became a forest around her again, though unlike the one before. The trees here were smooth and twisted, coiling around one another in a manner only native to the magic-steeped Ionia. What leaves decorated the branches were confined to the canopy, masking the wood from celestial influences. As a result, the ground was relatively barren – though only relative to the otherwise bountiful Ionia. Little life scampered here. There were small mammals with antlers and serpentine tails, barely the height of Kalista's knee. Above and below, she felt the hum of insects crawling over the terrain, too small to be of notice to her, too simple to register her as anything other than a passing shade.

In the distance however, were the spirits of two higher lifeforms, confined to flesh. She could not tell how far they were, nor anything about them. There was no indication whether they were her mark, or whether the call of duty simply pulled her into their path. The only thing she could tell with any kind of certainty was that they were alone together, in the forest enshrouded by shadow.

Away from the prying light of the blood moon.

* * *

 _Shit._

Blood is flowing from the corner of my lip, trailing down my chin and dripping onto my stomach. I can't tell whether it's cold or warm. I can barely feel anything. My eyes and ears still work, but due to the flickering light cast by the lantern I can't tell if my vision is fading or not. I notice in the corner of my eye, the fingers on my left hand twitching. I don't know if I'm doing it though, I can't be sure. I think I am.

Alexei is standing over me in the bunker, there's a knife in his right hand. The walls and floor are littered with shuriken's and scars, we are both amateurs after all, even if he was more skilled than I. Novices in our master's school.

Well, _my_ master's.

He's breathing heavily, but silent. I think I can hear my own laboured breathing too, but it's hard to pick apart from the pounding beat of my heart, trying futilely to ensure my survival. I died four minutes ago when Alexei tore out part of my lower abdomen. I'm not sure which, or even where, though I assume if I had the strength to turn my head I'd see it lying next to me. The pain faded long ago.

"You knew I'd kill you if you tried to stop me." Alexei said to me, glaring down. I had nicked his right eye before he'd got me. The lid over it was closed and bloody, though I was almost certain he would remain blind in it for the rest of his life.

"…I know." I said, somehow. Each word was soaked in blood spilling from my mouth as I said them.

"Then why did you try to stop me? You knew what I was doing for weeks, you _agreed_ with me!" He spat with his voice.

I nodded. I hear something crack in my neck, but it doesn't otherwise bother me. "I cannot turn against Master Zed. Even if he is wrong…" I cough ungracefully. "…even if he were to burn Ionia down, I swore a vow to be at his side and to learn the shadows. As all of us did." I strain my eyes to meet his gaze, unsure if I'm even successful. "As you did."

Alexei sneered at that. "Your blind loyalty got you killed, how about that?" He moves away and reaches down to the floor. I can't see the object he picked up, but it couldn't have been anything but the scrolls he'd stolen from Master Zed's archives.

"Zed will destroy Ionia if left unchecked. I joined his order because I believed he'd exercise restraint, and because someone had to stand up to Noxus. Now that the invasion is over, he's being left unchecked." Alexei turns back to me. "I don't want to watch Ionia die."

I don't care what his reasons are to be honest. Zed had taken us in during the latter half of the invasion, after moving from place to place escaping the war. That was enough for me. I owed my life to him, it didn't matter what I thought.

"You…betrayed him." I cough out, breathing was getting hard now. My throat is slick with blood, it would fill up soon.

"He betrayed us, and Ionia!"

 _That's not your place to say!_ I shout back at him, but I wasn't sure if I managed to say it at all. I saw him frown at me, and I frown back. I don't think his mouth moved after that, he just knocked the lantern down and let the flame within escape, slowly burning down the bunker. Wrapping himself in the shadows cast by the fire, he disappeared, leaving me in my failure.

 _Fuck._

I knew this was going to happen. Alexei had always been better than me, even if he was a non-Ionian, he had an affinity for the shadows that I just couldn't grasp.

I cough up more blood. My body is continuing to fail.

The fingers on my left hand tremble as I will life into them, forcing the rest of the arm to animate in following as I lift my hand to the folds of my jacket. I have to watch each movement carefully, I'm directing purely by eyesight now, as I cannot feel the muscles themselves.

I withdraw my hand and look at the object I'm clutching, each breath a battle on its own at this point. It's bloodied and slightly scuffed due to our confrontation, but the thrice-pierced effigy I had prepared beforehand thankfully was intact.

Darkness coalesces again in front of me, but rather than the cold familiar shadows of Master Zed's tutelage, I see black mist form a Shinto gate before me, scratching claws and gleeful demons reaching out from the other side.

 _Is this Hell, or you?_ I ask the effigy. It might have replied, I couldn't tell.

A figure emerges from the gate, a warrior garbed in the likeness of the demons behind her, but not like them in gait. The way she walks is unwomanly, but there is an undeniable grace in her poise. I'm not sure if it's the exhaustion, or if it's the ever-closing struggle for my heart to keep pumping blood around my body, but my pulse rises.

 _Beautiful._

I notice then that like the effigy in my hand, she is thrice-pierced. A smile rises on my lips, or at least I will one to. I myself failed, but my contingency will succeed. Master Zed will not be betrayed.

She's only inches from me now. The air hums, but I cannot hear what she is saying. There's eyes behind the demonic mask, looking into mine. Burning, more like. My last breath escapes, and with it, I give her the soul she is due. With my final act, I uphold my vow to Master Zed, and swear a new oath to another.

* * *

Kalista found herself back to the Shadow Isles the next morning, sitting on a beach of black sand and watching the ocean. Her fragment of the Black Mist sat near her, as it always did, curled around itself in a twisted, amorphous form. The souls within were occupied with their new kin, an assassin of the shadows from Ionia. For the time being he was distinct amongst the otherwise vague faces, but in time he would become as they were. Undefined. A face in the crowd.

Gratefully, this left Kalista time alone to herself. When she had taken in the new Oathsworn, the Lady of Vengeance persona had in turn taken over. Snippets and flashes of memory remained in hunting down Alexei, a tower of snarling, clawed shadow standing beneath the trees, felled by the Lady's nimble movements and piercing strikes. As she returned to her true form on the Shadow Isles, she and the Mist had split again, and she was granted the same clarity of self that her time in Ionia had afforded her.

Without her memories, it was an empty clarity, but clear nonetheless.

 _But what caused it?_

Was she gaining more control over the passage of time? Was the Mist itself weakening? Was there something more nebulous happening over the Isles?

She flicked the bridge of her nose with her thumb and frowned, contemplating.

 _No. I don't like it._ She stopped her thought process for a moment. _Yet I have no choice. If something is happening to the Shadow Isles, he would know about it._

She grit her teeth and rose to her feet, each step inland barely sinking into the sand. Her Black Mist lifted and rose, currently helmed by the nameless shadow assassin. Even in her spectral, limbo state, there were things that made her incredibly uneasy.

None had a more malicious presence than that of her next meeting.


	4. Malicious Metal

Life.

Each time, warbands united to become something greater than themselves. They walked together, mismatched in attire and ideologies, united for the common purpose of bringing down a creature otherwise beyond them, individually.

Men and women of all ages, no warrior spared for this plight. This would be the fourth time trying. The sun was high. The shadows were low. The ground rumbled with marching feet as they closed in on the black-iron castle. Not a cloud reigned above them, no beasts stirred save for the ones in their service. The land turned from green to grey with each passing step.

Some of us wore solid suits of armour and woven metal, wielding gleaming, polished steel. Some in cloth, choosing instead to arm themselves and support others with their magics. Some were in leathers, and some were in no uniform altogether, a collection with nothing in common but a goal.

To topple the tyrant in his tin tower.

They would be warbands no longer, they would become civilizations, kingdoms, cultures. No longer would they stand life under the threat of conquest. No longer would the undying black despot be a constant reminder of their fragile mortality, generation after generation.

Lionas stood at the front, his wife and daughter a step behind him, leading his warband from the foothills of the Great Mountain. Lightly armoured, focused more on offensive prowess than anything else. Most wore furs and straps of leather to hold them together, with sparingly few bearing dull iron over their shoulders and arms. A collection of spears and shields dominated their arsenal, a few carrying bows and fewer still carrying shortswords.

They passed over a ridge, finally, and it came into view.

The Immortal Bastion.

The ground beneath them was all hardened soil and cracked rock, nothing had grown here for centuries. They'd entered the heart of his empire, unbeating, grey, devoid of anything but the will to spread its influence and consume. Ever step brought the horizon closer, the army of armies venturing deeper into this inhospitable land.

It took them the better part of two hours, such was the scope of their combined alliance, but they eventually managed to form up around the front gate of the black citadel. The collection of living beings opposing the undeath stretched for miles in all directions, hearts beating as one. Lionas was still some distance away from the centre of it – his forces quite a ways to the right – but he stood proudly at its helm, eager to be a part of the force assembled to rid the world of the monster housed before them. Behind the gate and walls was a city-fortress of spires and towers, climbing higher into the sky the further back they were.

At the centre of the gathered armies, a woman in golden armour stepped forth. Lionas didn't know the name of her people, only their reputation. High-minded, elitist, but admittedly proficient in battle. He couldn't hear her words as she shouted them up to whoever manned the walls and the black gate, but he could guess their meaning. It would be a proclamation of war, a cry for victory.

She called out, and the armies waited.

At first there was no response. The dead wind was silent and the black city was unmoving.

Almost a half-hour after the declaration, the gate started to rumble. The entire structure began to shift, opening slowly and with the gravity of something much heavier than itself. As they opened, a single, lean figure emerged. Its gait was somewhere between a limp and a confident march, not quite resembling one over the other and becoming unsettling in its uncertainty. As the figure came closer, Lionas could barely make out the gaunt features beneath the dark robe and hood, weighty chains hanging off their frame.

An exchange of words began between the creature and the golden-armoured woman. They spoke for what must have been just shy of a minute before she drew her sword and slashed through the others unguarded chest, sending him to the ground. Only dust bled from the wound, but the figure seemed to be otherwise dead.

"The gate is open, take the Bastion!" He barely heard, followed by the resounding roar of a thousandfold warriors.

However, as they took their first step, a greater one was heard. The sound of a drum began to pound, perfect in its rhythm and foreboding in cadence. A few seconds later, a chant began to accompany it. Using human words, but being made by what did not sound like human mouths. Lionas looked up at the walls and saw hundreds of glowing eyes looking down at them, staring without blinking. He felt a chill crawl up his spine and cast his eyes towards the ajar black gate, watching the swirling mist behind it.

A silhouette appeared. Not human, far too bulky and tall. Lionas swallowed and tightened the grip on his spear, trying to level his breathing. He watched as those at the centre of the armies readied themselves, they would be the first line against whatever was emerging from the fog.

What emerged were horns, and metal.

A great, hulking bull wrought and clad in iron, each step leaving a deep mark in the ground. When it breathed, black smoke filtered out of its nose and mouth, masking most of its face in a dark fog that only betrayed crimson eyes and massive, curved horn. It stood so tall that the shoulder would have been almost twice the height of an average man, looking down on the armies as it approached them.

Atop its back was another figure, a rider proportioned to match the gargantuan aurochs. He too was wrought and clad in iron, though rather than merely being framed by it, it seemed to make up his frame entirely. Metal plate that was synonymous with muscle, inelegant and brutish, but crafted with an inhuman level of care. One hand gripped reins of chain, the other hefted a colossal spiked mace over his shoulder. A horned helm to match the spiky, edged aesthetic of the body, eyes of hellfire and scorn for those beneath him. Behind him, cloaks of cloth and chain mail swayed, like a rolling thunderstorm in the walk of a god.

The allied humans had called out for the Iron Revenant, and they had received their wish.

Mordekaiser was before them.

Lionas remembered moving in, leading his company at the helm. He remembered holding his spear high to strike between the plating of the bull, the roar of men and women around him as they collapsed upon their enemy.

Then he remembered being hit by a single swing of Mordekaiser's mace with such force that it felt as though his soul was rent from his body.

When he woke, the battle was over. He frantically looked around to see for any survivors, away from the Immortal Bastion. All he saw were corpses for as far as the eye could see, smashed and bloody, some beyond even being recognizably human. He pressed his hand against the ground to push himself to his knees, and as he tried to catch his first breath, he choked. A hand shot up to his throat to ease himself, but his fingers grasped at nothing. His throat now bore a hollow gash, half of it torn out and barely holding his head up, gored out by one of the spikes on Mordekaiser's weapon.

As he conducted a review of his body, he found more wounds. His helmet had caved in so hard that it had pierced his skull and would be impossible to remove without tearing his head apart completely. His chest had suffered similar hollowing damage as his throat, exposing wayward-pointing ribs and a shredded lung. The furs over his body had become soaked in blood, likely not only his own. There were only three remaining fingers on his spear-wielding hand, having lost the outermost at some point, possibly even after he had been struck.

It all hurt beyond what life could force a man to suffer through, and yet he was somehow still alive, suffering through it.

Panic gripped him as more memories came back. He saw the familiar garb and armaments of his comrades litter the battlefield around him. He saw faces he knew, faces he'd shared drinks with and sparred with. He rose to his feet and looked for the faces of his family.

He found his wife's body not far from his own, her stomach rent completely out and the left side of her body flattened by the bull's trampling. Half of her face had been torn away, Lionas only recognised her for the charm around her neck he'd given her when they had wed. Tears failed to come, he only felt the pain of his destroyed body.

His daughter however was nowhere to be found, and that gave him hope. It was fleeting, but bright within his broken chest.

 _I'll break that too._

A voice was in his head, not his own. Deep and low, with an air of arrogance one couldn't build over a single mortal lifetime.

 _You're mine now. I own your soul, I own your body._

Mordekaiser's will flowed through him, forcing his arms and legs to move against him. His three fingers curled around an unbroken nearby spear, yanking it from the dirt, and his legs began to move.

 _Your daughter. Find her, kill her. Bring me her corpse._

Lionas's pathetic spark of self was smothered by Mordekaiser's black influence, commanding, dominating. He couldn't resist the command.

Death.

* * *

Kalista saw all this within the space of a second as she looked upon Lionas's face. One of many, a crowd of tormented souls in Mordekaiser's magical shackles. Each one a story of pain, and fear, and domination.

Her own crowd of souls followed her as she waded through Mordekaiser's amassed armies of the dead. Even her fragment of the Black Mist shrunk away from the ones around them, doing their best to cling to Kalista's footsteps and shadow. While the souls under her command had suffered similarly in life, there was no pain in their deaths.

That, and she took no pleasure in the pain. Mordekaiser revelled in it.

The revenant had taken the greatest of castles that the Shadow Isles had to offer for himself. It was in ruins, as the rest of the isles were, but there was an air of grandeur and self-smug arrogance that could fit only the black iron conqueror.

There was a blown-out tower upon the furthest reaches of the isles, atop the highest hill. Kalista scaled it with ease, using her nimble body and deft movements to traverse crags and shattered structures. Everywhere she went, dead eyes watched her, unblinking. Soldiers from across all the world and throughout several eras told a tale of Mordekaiser's reign.

Each time she looked into their eyes, she saw their fates, like Lionas, squeezed into a second.

When Kalista had reached the top, she looked out behind her. From her vantage she could see the rest of the isles, clouded in the thick of the black mist and the green glow of lost souls. Isles that had once seen brighter shades of green, of life. Isles that she supposedly had visited during their better days.

So Yorick had told her, at least.

She turned to face inward, to the centre of the ruined tower. The floor was cracked in more places than not, giving the warrior a view into the abyssal chasm below. The fall wouldn't kill her, it would just waste time in returning to the top. At the centre of the floor there was a throne, flanked by two pillars wrought of black iron. The throne itself was smashed together from various wartime paraphernalia; weapons, armour, and the bodies of the conquered dead.

Slouching dismissively in its seat was the wretched existence she had come to see. Both arms rested upon the flanks of the throne, fingers curled against the metal. His body was charred and dented, scars cut into it as marks of pride. A great mace rested just within reach, propped up against the throne. The armour had seen better days, days where it hadn't looked out from a ruined tower over a ruined land, but from an overbearing fortress upon an empire of malice and death.

Yet, as Kalista gazed into the crimson eyes blazing inside the horned helmet, she knew to be wary. She knew to avoid conflict with this one. She knew that amongst all the greater Shadow Islanders, none were mightier than Mordekaiser.

He glared down at her, waiting for her to speak. She sought him out, she owed him the first word. Through her ever-hardened face and grit teeth, she spoke.

"We…I…need your help."

He said nothing.

"You know these isles in a way no other does. You can speak to the Mist without-"

"Kneel." He said.

Kalista was caught off guard, her Oathsworn Mist snarling and shaping itself into spears and blades. A part of her agreed with it, she was no trifling spirit seeking an audience with the king of iron conquest, but another part – the Kalista part – was willing to sacrifice pride for the sake of her quest. She weighed her options, and decided to kneel. Her Mist retained its aggressive shape, but adopted a defensive posture around its lady, keeping the situation civil, at least for the moment.

As Kalista touched her knee to the ground, she looked up and began to speak again. "Mordekaiser, you alone are not a slave to the Black Mist as we are. You are not bound to it by the cursed fate of the Ruined King, and are not limited in how you can interact with it. Our…my memories and identity are fading, my duty to mete out vengeance becoming more than just duty."

"One thought drives us." The Mist said using echoes of her own voice.

The conqueror shifted in his throne, moving his weight to one side and leaning against his closed gauntlet, resting his elbow on one of the arms.

"If you would-"

"No."

She paused and gripped her spear slightly tighter, choosing her next words carefully.

"Revenant, you-"

"No. I neither care nor care to help you. Get out of my sight."

Kalista grit her teeth but maintained her composure for the moment. Her fragment of the Mist however, was less tactful. It swelled and shifted into a platoon of spears, surging through the air towards the revenant. Each blade pointed downwards at their target, aiming for the joints in his armour and the holes in his helmet. A shriek was heard, and the Mist lunged forward.

Only to be wrenched to the side and crushed into the broken floor, all without a single movement from Mordekaiser.

From Kalista's kneeling body, the Lady of Vengeance sparked to life in a flare of outrage, calling upon her Oathsworn and lunging forward. She conjured a great lance in her hand, drawing it back to strike at his sternum.

In response, Mordekaiser casually raised his index finger from the arm of his throne, conjuring a spectre of black magic, instantly tearing the Lady into a hundred shreds of scattered soul. She fluttered in the wind, all at once across the sky, before losing her sense of self once again.


	5. Familiarity

Thank you for your patience.

* * *

This was a new hell.

For every shrill cry in the night, every lonesome shriek, every pained wail, there was cause behind it. Widows, orphaned children, broken men, all united in their shared anguish of being reduced to dregs of their former selves, offscourings. When one sought vengeance, they did so from a place of retribution. Perhaps wanting to share their misery with those who caused it, or a sense of misguided justice, or simply wanting to lash out at the world until there was nothing left to lash out at. Some let themselves become consumed by vengeance, until all that is left once it is done is the hollow shell of the person they were before. Some let the journey itself break them down until they no longer had to suffer, until they had died and become ash. Some even called upon the name of the supernatural, of a condemnation against the self that was almost certainly not worth the guaranteed vengeance against those who had wronged them.

Kalista knew this, had felt it, every beaded drop of pain that her Oathsworn had suffered. Those drops had accumulated, and as she waded through them she lost more and more of herself in them, and she feared eventually she would no longer be able to keep her head above the water. That is what the Lady of Vengeance was, a fetid threat of being consumed by her own dreadful duty.

Yet there was a sense of pride in it, a sense of honour. She was righting wrongs in the world, even if it was upon a spear tip.

In this newfound oblivion however, there was no purpose to the suffering. No meaning, no reason behind it. Her Oathsworn swam around her as dissipated mist, clawing to cling to the infinite absence of reality for some semblance of incarnation, even as a faded wisp, even as a flickering accoutrement to the Lady of Vengeance.

Kalista was however, free for the first time since her undeath. Every fiber of what made her up had been torn to shreds, and thus, the souls that made up her collective Lady were now distinct from her. Whenever she blinked she saw fragments of her past life, her true self. Banners, armoured ranks, the sound of hooves, a crown, the feel of a spear haft in her hand.

It made the pain against inexistence that much harder to bear. Things that Thresh could only dream of inflicting, things that made his familiar skin-flaying fetish something that Kalista would have welcomed. What wasn't fragmented was being continually torn into smaller pieces, retaining full feeling, if not amplified by the emptiness of not having her Oathsworn bound to her in the moment. Were she mortal, she would have died instantly, too quickly to even register the pain, but the thankless immortal curse of the Shadow Isles ensured she would be forced to endure.

Torment came without an end in sight.

None of the pain that each individual Oathsworn had suffered and imparted unto Kalista could compare to the act of pulling herself back together. Piece by piece, with clawed hands grasping her way back into tangible reality. Mordekaiser's power would have been enough to completely erase a lesser being from reality, and perhaps even some of the greater ones. Kalista fell far between the two categorizations, but bound as she was to the Ruined King's curse she could not enjoy true death. She searched through a fogged sea of memories, of pain, until she found those that resembled the original Kalista's, the spear and banners, the hooves, a crown she knelt before. Trying to reforge herself, before she could reforge the Oathsworn and the Lady of Vengeance.

With each returned memoir she gained more sense of her old self, like smashing something apart and finding what it was really made of. There was more than a single sense to each memory, completing them. It was there she saw an austere king standing over the body of a dying woman, it was there she heard his command to save her life, and felt the spray of the sea as she travelled the world in pursuit of her task. It was there she smelled the once clear air of a holy island, tasted of their waters and their fruits, and their blessings.

Behind them was a childhood, growth, the first time she held a weapon, the first time she killed a man.

Behind even them, behind all the memories as a pale shadow, was a rider who's face she could not see, astride a great warhorse that churned the earth and eclipsed the sun.

 _Kalista._

When she finally returned to the real world, days later, there was a short backlog of new Oathsworn to be met. The Lady assumed complete control for this time, overcoming the renewed but weakened Kalista. Retribution swept across Runeterra in precise, bloody strikes, leaving thrice-pierced corpses in the wake of thrice-swearing rituals. It all occurred over the course of a single, long night, the sun refusing to rise until the Lady had completed her task.

When the sun crested, Kalista awoke more whole than she had been since her death. She still felt fragmented, was still painfully aware of the triad of spears piercing her chest and the grasping, moaning shadow of Oathsworn that insisted on following her wherever she went. However, for the first time there was clarity, almost individuality for the woman. The memories themselves couldn't help but be murky, half-shrouded half-truths obscured by the mists and Kalista's own death, but they were more than she had ever known before.

For hours, Kalista sat upon the beach looking inward. The roiling black sea barely registered for her, being solely focused on the events leading up to her death and trying to piece them together in some coherent fashion. She remembered kneeling countless times before a king, and killing for him countless more times. She remembered using her martial poise to overwhelm threats to his person, flawlessly, for that was what her loyalty demanded. The first time she erred, the price for saving her kings life came at the life of his queen, a poison dart deflected by Kalista's blade.

At best, the poison could be slowed, but the queen's imminent death was certain. At the king's behest she had been tasked to scour the land for a remedy, a cure, and so she died. She wandered far and wide, haunted by her failure and spurred by her will to correct it. Despite that, something was missing. Something in Kalista's mind was falling short. Every time she revisited the day she left the king's side to fulfil his quest, there was a shadow standing over her, watching from her old post. She couldn't define it, all she knew was that its gaze followed her even through the crags in the mountains and over rolling hills leagues from the capitol, every step of the way.

Even over the waters, where the waves could not free her from its watch.

She eventually found a place she did not know the name of, but she knew it would become the Shadow Isles. She remembered stepping off the boat she manned, letting it rest against the shoreline as she beheld the lush, vivid land before her. White stone spires and marble architecture peeked out of what was otherwise dominated by pure green life. Waves of calm washed over her, just as the shallows washed over her ankles as she stepped out of her boat. She was uninvited, but not unwelcome, she found no one sending her away. Her spear stayed in hand, but its blade was lowered, brushing gently against the grass as monks led her through this new land.

A cure for the ailment she sought, and a promise to not reveal this place. She adhered, and oaths were sworn. The faces that spoke with her in hallowed temples were all blurred, words indistinct even as she recalled their meanings. All but one, the lonely gravetender in the cemetery.

 _Yorick._

Kalista however had no ability to interact with him, not now. For the moment she was trapped in the confines of where her past self had tread, where the living Kalista had walked. The remainder of her journey felt constricted, as if details were fading more the closer to her death she became.

The spray of sea as she returned to her liege.

The wail of a ruined king, queenless.

She broke her oath, the king marched, and she was struck down in betrayal by the shadow at his side.

* * *

Yorick hummed a quiet song as he dragged his fingers through the dirt. His bladed shovel was a gift, it made both sides of his work easier. When he needed to dig it served him, and when he needed to defend himself against he corporeal threats of the Shadow Isles it served him just as well. However, it was a poor fit for finer work, and he lowered his head in resolution as soil and salt were trapped beneath his fingernails.

The skeleton beneath the collapsed grave was fragile enough to crack if he was too heavy in his work, and a broken skeleton offered no chance for renewal. The soul trapped within might have been there from the days of the Ruination, or even before, Yorick paid no mind to it. All he considered was that there was a trapped soul waiting passage into the beyond, and he would deliver it.

"Hush." He attempted to soothe the restless departed, gently caressing its exposed skull. He continued to dig in silence, displacing more and more dirt until finally enough of the bones were exposed for him to perform his rites. He knelt on both knees and wrapped his fingers around the vial of water around his throat, closing his eyes and concentrating.

The soul struggled, rose, and fell. Yorick exhaled and tried again, giving guidance where he could. His words were slow and quiet, just loud enough for the dead to hear. They were often difficult to calm down, given how long they had been trapped in their graves. In truth he didn't even know if they were still capable of thought, or registered as human, but the beyond was waiting and all deserved to meet it.

Finally, after the better part of an hour, the soul managed to be still just enough for Yorick's rite to take effect.

"Be at peace." He whispered, bowing his head as the soul moved on to the next phase of life. As he rose, brushing loose soil off his knees and robes, he felt a familiar presence bearing down on him.

Familiar, and always unwelcome.

The Maiden of the Mist glared down at him. "You could have taken him. You could have been stronger."

"I am strong enough." He replied, not looking up at her as he turned to the next grave. She followed his head, wrapping her black claws around the headstone and leaned over it, coming too close for comfort.

"Look at you. Hunched over graves that you refuse to claim. We could be stronger, Yorick. We could rule this island."

He didn't say anything back, focusing on his work. He drew his shovel and began to bite into the earth, scooping loads out from the ground before him. The headstone for this grave was cracked, the name of its owner halved down the middle, and what was left was too faded to make out. Yorick was resolute that he would at least give its owner peace, and returned to humming his quiet song.

The Maiden continued to twist around him, her fingers never leaving the headstone but her presence expanding and swirling. She could never harm him directly, not with his vial of water nor the binding that kept her to him, but she would try to sway him regardless. Bitter and vengeful, the shades of long-lost spirits formed around Yorick. Spirits lost during the ruination, spirits would despite all his efforts would never be able to find peace.

The best he could do was to carry on and help those he could, and to fight back the Black Mist.

His reverie was broken when the Maiden hissed in anger, and suddenly disappeared, the forlorn making up her body whispering their way back into Yorick's shade-cloak. He looked up to see new hands replacing hers on the headstone. Pale green, ethereal, and connected to tight-fitting bracers.

"Kalista." Yorick offered with a modicum of respect, pausing his task to greet her. He stood and planted his shovels blade into the dirt, resting his weight on it. It was rare for islanders to interact, rarer still for those interactions to be amicable. While Kalista did not openly oppose the Black Mist as he did, she was not its agent, and her work was not malevolent or founded in cruelty. Thus, he had some level of admiration for the wraith.

"Gravetender." She replied back. "Monk of the Blessed Isles."

Yorick was taken slightly aback. She had never called him that before. As far as their interactions had indicated, all he was to her with a shepherd, an undertaker for the lost. "Ah. So your memories have returned?"

"Not all of them. We still lack…" She grit her teeth. " _I_ do not have that day. The day of the ruination."

He didn't reply immediately, staring into the cavities in her chest where her spears punctured. He could see the wailing cloud of Oathsworn behind her, as mist in her long-cast shadow. "It is not my place to tell you."

Kalista glared at him, vaulting herself over the headstone and closing the distance between them. "You _will_ tell me, gravetender." Her Oathsworn pooled around her, grasping hands forming in the shadows around them. In response, Yorick's misshapen ghouls appeared at his sides, and the feminine, foreboding silhouette of his Maiden leaned over his shoulders.

The monk sighed and leaned on his planted shovel, looking at the earth. He pressed cold, calloused fingers against the bridge of his nose, as if trying to relieve stress. With the Maiden leaning over him once more, staring hatred into the spear-pierced woman before them, he wasn't sure how much he could divulge. His face became sour, and he spoke in solemn tones.

"I will tell you what I can, and where you can go to find your answers."

For all the twisted landscape and bleak ruins over the Shadow Isles, there was at least somewhere where one could walk without worrying about debris and gnarled roots. The land still reeked of desolation, but there was a peace of sorts over the plains.

At least until the thundering of the Isles' warhost came to pass.

Faceless, armoured corpses astride ghostly steeds of all manner. Those that still had bodies never had them whole, severed limbs replaced with ghostly prosthetics, and all of them wore at least one weapon embedded in their bodies like a badge. Arrows stuck out of their torsos like quills, and a few of them were wandering around half-helmed and half-headed. There were a great variety of different mounts, coalesced from the Shadow Isles various conquests across the world. Armour that heralded from Noxus, and the kingdom before it, from Ionia, Demacia, and even as far as the deserts of Shurima. Some of these mounts were not horses at all, but strange, horned beasts who's wide feet were better suited to sand than soil. There were heavy, bulky mounts from the frozen spectres of the Freljord, and the fleeter steeds that the warhost had plundered from the corpses of Demacia.

There was even a Bilgewater captain who had suffered the misfortune of being mounted when the Black Mist had ridden into Bilgewater one year, and rather than a coveted death below the waves he was now part of the warhost, riding backwards on a skeletal horse in a perpetual, languid drunkenness.

None compared however, to their leader. Where everyone behind him was only figuratively one with their riding partner, Hecarim was literally fused at the hip. The ruination had cursed him with this form, and with this form he had spread his accursed existence across the land with the rolling tides of the Mist. He alone backed the bulk of the warhost's strength. He alone struck terror into generations while his nameless company were only his shadows.

He alone stood out in Kalista's eyes, kindling a fury as she watched him rampage through the ghostly plains.

The story Yorick had told her had filled out the gaping crevasse in her mind, and had sent her into an unmatched wrath. Every little scrap of information, every detail had pitched the flame higher, until it licked the clouds and smoke scraped at the stars. Even so, the memories did not resonate with her as she had expected them to. She knew they were hers, fully. She knew that the things Yorick had described were true, that she had stood before the monks and had returned with her king in tow, and that she had been betrayed by a monstrous rider. The words were from her life, but it felt like they were written by the hand of another.

Yet these second-hand memories were all she had, and she clung to them with all the strength she could. Through them, she found the need for vengeance as her only recourse, the only way forward.

So for the first time in her undeath, she called upon her Oathsworn willingly and moved with them, as one. Each step brought her closer, and she tightened the grip on her spear as her prey came into range.

Here and now, retribution would come.

* * *

This chapter is dedicated to the two friends who helped me with what I feel are the strongest elements.

The story is not yet over.


	6. Farewell

Ground rumbled, hooves trampled, a forest of spears stuck the earth in pursuit.

Rider and mount fell, tumbling to the earth in a crash of hooves and hands and halberds.

Rider and mount fell, churning the dirt with a spray of ghostly iron and maligned limbs.

Rider and mount fell, empty curses spun out on silent winds.

Yet the one that she truly hunted, Rider and Mount, Mount and Rider, interchangeable and indistinguishable, was beyond her. Every spear fell short, each leaping bound was only barely enough to keep the great betrayer in sight.

Even with the Oathsworn at her side, the Shadow of War was insurmountable. For her amassed heart of spears and swords and hollow souls, Hecarim's astride warhost was seemingly indestructible. . They remained faster and endlessly durable, rising from the pyres of their own corpses almost just as the spears felled them.

And when they turned back, they would commit slaughter in droves.

His indifference was a strength, little more than a machine for destruction, carving warpaths across the lands of the dead and the living. Where his enemy was fuelled by too much emotion, him being devoid granted him a clarity in warfare.

A clarity that granted strength to his glaive.

The Oathsworn and their Lady fell beneath the onslaught. A pure, uninterruptable expression of sheer force, the greatest that the Black Mist had to offer. There was no permanence to their deaths, trapped within the same prison as the horsemen, but the pain was all the same, and never softened with each demise.

Her lust for revenge eclipsed the struggle however, and she would always rise again to fight, inciting her Oathsworn to join her.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Until there were no more numbers to consider the times she had risen to take her vengeance, and beyond that.

Until she could take it no longer, and gave herself up to the Oathsworn, becoming their true, united avatar as the Spear of Vengeance.

Until there was no longer a woman, just a wraith.

Until Kalista was just an empty name, with empty memories.

* * *

Thank you to everyone who read who read this story, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it.


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